Instinct
by LuxaLucifer
Summary: Gwindor heard the voice as he was falling, and honestly, it didn't make him feel any better about it. The man who'd bowled him over frantically reached out a hand to save him, but he reached for the wrong one, and Gwindor continued to fall until his hit the hard ground. When he looked up, a large, bearded, very confused man was holding Gwindor's coat. Modern!AU with Túrin.


This was written for cognitivemiscellanea on tumblr, who wasn't something with Gwindor and Turin, so here it is! Good job on planning out your fic, cognitivemiscellanea! :D A Modern day AU where Gwindor and Turin have never met.

* * *

"Shit, shit, I'm sorry!"

Gwindor heard it as he was falling, and honestly, it didn't make him feel any better about it. The man who'd bowled him over frantically reached out a hand to save him, but he reached for the wrong one, and Gwindor continued to fall until his hit the hard ground. When he looked up, a large, bearded, very confused man was holding Gwindor's coat.

"Could I have that back?" said Gwindor quietly, hoping he could keep the rasp out of his voice for this conversation.

"What? I didn't catch that!" said the bearded stranger loudly. "I'm really sorry! I knocked you over, and I tried to grab you, but I just got this!" The bearded man gestured around with the coat frantically, then looked down and realized why he hadn't been able to grab onto Gwindor's left hand. He turned very red.

"I know," said Gwindor, standing up slowly, his creaking joints protesting. They stood there for a second, Gwindor letting the bearded man take in his battered appearance, the scars crisscrossing his worn body. His eyes lingered, not on his stump like Gwindor had expected, but his eyes. He liked the bearded man's eyes

"You look like you need a drink," said the bearded man. "My name is Túrin, by the way. Túrin Turambar. Do you want to come to my place, maybe have a drink to forget how clumsy and awful I am?"

Gwindor hesitated. There was an aura around this man, and not a good one. His sense were telling him not to trust him. Then again, the last time he'd trust his sense, he'd ended up forced to work deep in the mines of a country several thousand miles from home, so he wasn't exactly that keen on his instincts.

"Sure," he replied. "Why not? I'm Gwindor, if you were wondering."

Túrin handed him his coat back, and he swung it over his shoulders one-handed, tugging it over his left shoulder so it covered his maimed arm.

Túrin led the way; apparently his apartment wasn't far from where they'd been standing. In the couple of blocks between their starting place and Túrin's home, the poor man fell in a puddle, stubbed his toe on a trash can, had a pigeon shit on his shoulder, and walked into a brick wall. Gwindor quickly became convinced he'd met the unluckiest man on the planet.

"Yeah, I'm pretty clumsy-oh shit, I'll have to tell Tuor sorry about his garden later- as you can see. But I get by. Where were you going, if you don't mind? Sorry for knocking you over again. My luck seems to spread to those around me, unfortunately."

"I was..." What did he say? Wandering aimlessly? Trying to find someplace to spend his pension, since he had no friends, not since- "I was getting coffee." Close enough.

"Do you want coffee, then? Or a drink, like I promised?"

Túrin was unlocking the door to a small, slightly dingy apartment now. Gwindor rather liked the look of it- it reminded him of his own.

"Coffee," he decided. "I don't really like to drink."

Túrin laughed, but it was a joyless sound. "I do. Pardon me for saying a little more about me than you want to know, but I drink a lot. I've done some bad...there's been...let's just say my unluckiness causes me more pain that a shat-on jacket."

Gwindor didn't care. "I don't care," he said.

"Good, won't have to say goodbye to my only hope for a friend," said Túrin, trying to make it sound like a joke but failing miserably.

The inside was like the outside, and Gwindor still liked. Slightly dingy and shabby, Túrin kept the place clean except for the occasional empty bottle tucked away in a corner. He sat in an old armchair, picking up the picture on the end table while Túrin made fixed the coffee. The man in the photo was quite handsome, with long jet black hair and a huge smile. Túrin was in the photo too, looking much younger and holding what appeared to be a brace of rabbits. Yes, that had to be it- upon closer inspection, the other man had a bow slung around his shoulders.

"That's my friend Beleg," said Túrin, handing him his cup of coffee with a stony face.

"I thought you said you didn't have any friends," said Gwindor, making his own poor attempt at humor.

"He's dead."

Whoops. "Sorry."

"It's okay. It was my fault."

"I'm sure it wasn't-"

"I killed him."

Gwindor fell silent and sipped his tea. Túrin watched his with suspicion, until finally, he broke the silence.

"Don't you want to know about it? Ask me why I'm in jail?"

"I don't like to pry into other people's lives," he replied.

"I didn't mean to kill him. He was saving me, and I thought he was...no, I don't want to talk about it. I've changed my mind."

Gwindor bit his tongue to stop himself from retorting. For someone who didn't want to talk about it, he sure was talking about it a lot.

"I like the cover on this chair," he said.

"My mother made it," said Túrin gloomily. "Not my real mother. My foster mother."

Was this man for real? Was it even _possible_ to be this unlucky? Gwindor thought about his own life and decided that, yes, it was.

"Where is she now?"

"Probably where she's always been. I can't tell you, thought, it's classified." Túrin swilled his own drink and took a gulp that was probably more than what was socially acceptable.

Gwindor was beginning to suspect that this man's existence was an elaborate hoax. Failing to think of why anyone would try to trick him using a handsome drunk, he picked up the paper. The headline read 'CEO's Son Freed From Imprisonment, Lost His Good Looks.' Underneath the caption was the picture of a rather thin red-headed man with a miserable expression. He read a few sentences and wondered why the headline hadn't mentioned that he'd also lost his right hand.

Gwindor felt bad for the poor kid. Like the redhead, he'd also lost his looks and a hand. Too bad he didn't have a CEO parent to pay for the therapy.

"Reading about the kid who was saved by his cousin?" said Túrin. "It's sickening, isn't it?"

"Why? What's wrong with a story about someone getting saved?"

"The world only cares because he's rich," grumbled Túrin.

Gwindor rather thought you were better off not having the world keep its eye no you at a moment like that. He would have hated to have national attention on him as he'd recovered from his abuse, laying in the hospital bed, wondering how he'd ever managed to escape.

"Do you want to go to a bar?" said Túrin suddenly. Gwindor had a feeling most of Túrin's life decisions were sudden. "I'm bored here, and it would be nice to hang out with someone for once."

"Like I said, I don't like to drink."

"You could be my wingman," said Túrin, jumping up and hitting his shin on his coffee table. After he'd finished swearing violently he waggled his eyebrows at Gwindor. "How about it?"

"I do know this bar..." said Gwindor, thinking of Finduilas and her shy smile and how she could drink every man there under the table.

"Perfect!" shouted Túrin. "I'm sure we'll have a great time!"

Gwindor felt the presence of that bad aura again, but like before, he ignored it.

* * *

I hope you liked it! :)


End file.
